Young Turk

by Moris Farhi

  The teacher, a pious American widow, alarmed that we, young and impressionable boys, would be traumatized for life with nightmares of being cooked and eaten up by a witch, had duly alerted the college governors.

  Only şιk Ahmet had defended our beloved. Ridiculing the teacher’s hysteria as a hangover from the Brothers Grimm, he had argued that nasty witches were an importation that never concerned Turkish children because for them women, all women, represented love, tenderness and paradisal pleasures.

  The teacher, even more shocked by şιk Ahmet’s liberalism, had then recruited a cabal of clerics of various faiths. These eminences, professional bigots all, had not only agreed with the teacher that we boys had been irreparably damaged psychologically, but also had rued the fact that, because of Turkey’s secular constitution, the harlot could not be stoned to death as religious law stipulated.

  Again şιk Ahmet had risen to defend our beloved. Claiming to know her – we never found out how – he had presented her as a moral pioneer, a disciple of the philosopher Sartre and his companion, Simone de Beauvoir, who, by personal example, pointed the path to a new, tolerant and sexually liberated Europe. She was the sort of feminist modern Turkey needed in order to free our women from the taboos, inequalities and injustices by which, despite all efforts at emancipation, they were still ruled.

  But the governors had refused to heed his arguments. Those who glibly take the names of Allah, Jesus and Yahweh in vain still win every disputation. Not just in Turkey, but everywhere in the world.

  And so, the governors had ordered our beloved to leave Bebek; should she refuse, they had threatened, she would be handed over to the police.

  One last word about our dormitory. At first those of us who had known our beloved felt relieved that the dormitory had disbanded. We had spent the summer wondering whether we could ever reforge the bonds we had had before our beloved had come into our lives or, indeed, whether we wished to do so. But after hearing the way şιk Ahmet had defended her, we felt bereft. I am sure we still believe that if our dormitory had been left intact, we would have reclaimed the harmony we had created – if only for şιk Ahmet’s sake.

  If a school dormitory can do that for one individual, couldn’t the United Nations do it for all humankind?

  Thus my first, my unforgettable love ended, like most loves, in dreadful heartache. I felt inconsolable, damaged beyond repair, cursed for ever.

  But then, like all damaged goods, like those cracked urns of antiquity, I became an object that had been well used. I attained the wisdom of experience and developed a heart where every visitor could sign his or her name.

  Above all, I learned about love, particularly about carnal love. I learned that it is a hunger which, if not fed, emaciates and kills just as mercilessly as the hunger for food and water. And I learned to thank God for instilling in us such a hunger.

  I learned that no joy on earth compares with the joy two people experience as they lie naked and awash with bodily fluids. Feeling alive can mean only that.

  I learned that there is no holier creation than the human body.

  I learned that slow movements are beautiful, that gently humming interlocked bodies generate the sort of sublime electricity that the world needs, but which it rejects because it believes in perpetual activity which, invariably, means perpetual conflict.

  I learned that there are as many love games as stars in heaven, that one can conjoin with one’s partner like a centipede or like a bull and that, mercifully, there are still free-spirited men and women who are trying to find new ways of making love.

  Let me leave you with this vision: I am stretched out on a sofa. My beloved is determined to assess my age. She has an infallible method for doing so: the way they ascertain a tree’s age: by counting the rings in its trunk. Consequently, she has my member in her mouth. Her lips are thick with lipstick. Starting from the base of my penis, her mouth ambles upwards. At each half-centimetre, her lips imprint a red ring around the shaft. She continues until she runs out of length. She counts the rings. On this occasion they add up to thirty-six. (An hour ago, the number had been forty-one.) She cuddles up to me. She coos. ‘Thirty-odd rings. What a mature oak in one so young!’

  We embrace. She smears her breasts and vagina with rose-petal jam. She squats above my face so that I can imbibe her splendour. She lowers herself on to my mouth and lets me lap up every bit of the rose-petal jam. Then she mounts me and, as she begins to rock, she rubs her breasts all over my face. I am in such ecstasy that I am ready to die. In fact, I want to die, because I know I shall never again find this heaven, the Seventh Heaven.

  9: Attila

  Cracked Vessels from the Same Ruin

  Orhan arrived at Konstantin Efendi’s lokanta early one Sunday morning, long before the old Romanian or any member of his extended family had come down from their flat above the restaurant to start preparations for the day. Squatting by the main entrance and barely moving a muscle, he waited – almost two hours – until Ebony Nermin had the wits to bang on Konstantin Efendi’s door and shout that he had a visitor. By that time, most of the neighbourhood – and certainly, we youngsters – had gathered in the square and were offering opinions about who the stranger was and where he might have come from. Many, judging by the way the man could sit on his haunches seemingly for ever, maintained he was from eastern Anatolia, probably a labourer who had come to Istanbul in search of work. Others, struck by his high Asiatic cheekbones, suggested he was a Kurd from Persia or Azerbaijan. Yet others, pointing at the stranger’s grey Hollywood-style suit with broad white stripes like lanes on a running track, at his azure tie hanging loosely on his cream shirt – the shirt itself wide open to display the thick fleece of black hair on his chest – at his patent shoes shining like metallic roofs on sunny days, and at his thickly brilliantined hair, contended he was a gangster, probably a member of the Cossack mafia. Surely, he had come to demand protection money from Konstantin Efendi. After all, the old Romanian, whose Balkan cuisine had become popular with the smart clique, was minting it. Not to mention the fact that Cossacks could never stomach Romanians because the latter maintained that their religious truth, specially blessed by the patriarchate of Constantinople, the bedrock of Holy Roman orthodoxy, was Absolutely Immaculate, whereas the Cossack – and other Slavic orthodoxies – had been defiled over many centuries by countless depraved heretics.

  Eventually, Konstantin Efendi, still in his pyjamas and escorted by his sons, nephews and mammoth wife, Liliana, came down.

  Towering over the stranger, their voices deepened by some decibels for effect, they fired their questions.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  The stranger, languidly smoothing his robust, bull’s-horns moustache, pulled himself up and smiled like earth after rain.

  The fluidity of his movements induced Ebony Nermin to volunteer her opinion. ‘Clark Gable. But with a real moustache. Not a piddling eyebrow over the lips.’

  The stranger, broadening his smile, proffered his hand to Konstantin Efendi. ‘Orhan.’

  Konstantin Efendi, not much thinner than his wife, ignored the gesture and pushed closer to him. ‘Family name?’

  Orhan, unperturbed by Konstantin Efendi’s effort to intimidate, shrugged. ‘Just that. Orhan. Never had another name.’

  A quiver of pity streaked across Konstantin Efendi’s face. He was sensible enough to know that, even these days, there were still people bereft of lineage – and not just in Turkey. ‘What do you want, Orhan?’

  ‘I have a proposition.’

  ‘Oh, yes?!’

  Orhan turned to Konstantin Efendi’s eldest son, who was carrying a bunch of keys. ‘Open up. Let’s escape the heat.’

  The latter responded as if to a command and unlocked the lokanta’s door.

  Orhan sauntered in and picked a table at the back of the dining area.

  Konstantin Efendi and his clan followed as if Orhan were an inspector from the municipality.
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  The rest of us, led by Ebony Nermin – always the impetuous one for having a mind that lagged marginally behind ours – piled in behind them.

  Two men placed Orhan’s accent as north-east Anatolian. They were wrong. It was southern, from the Toros mountains, but from an isolated community. I knew about accents. I had spent half my life listening to comedy sketches on the radio.

  Orhan sat down, pulled the chairs on his flanks closer to himself and rested his arms on them. He beckoned us as if we were long-lost friends. ‘Konstantin Efendi – let’s have some raki. To sprinkle my proposition.’

  This time Liliana towered over him with all her 140 kilos. ‘First – the proposition.’

  Orhan beamed at her. ‘Madamitza – you have a beautiful voice ...’

  ‘Do I?’

  Orhan, smiling, took out his cigarettes and offered her one. ‘And powerful. Have you ever thought of singing, Madamitza? You’d have the nation at your feet ...’

  Liliana, who normally treated strangers as if her father owned the mountains and she the hills, relished the compliment. She refused the cigarette with a coquettish shake of the head. ‘The proposition ...’

  Orhan lit his cigarette. ‘Of course, Madamitza. But please forgive me if, the next second, I die of thirst.’

  Liliana, now smiling, gestured impatiently at her younger son. ‘Get some raki!’

  Konstantin Efendi, disconcerted by his wife’s docility, barked. ‘On the double!’

  The youth fetched a bottle of raki, a glass and some ice.

  Orhan wetted his mouth with an ice-cube, then dropped it in the glass. He poured himself a large measure and drank it in one go. He refilled his glass – this time, with the normal quantity. ‘I am a kabadayι, Konstantin Efendi. Madamitza ...’

  Kabadayι, literally ‘rough uncle’, has many connotations; but, give or take a nuance, they all mean ‘lout’, ‘tough guy’ and similar species.

  Konstantin Efendi nodded. ‘So I see.’

  ‘To be precise: I am a kabadayι of the old school. In the classical mould, you understand. Nothing like the ruffians, hooligans and villains who have stolen our good name.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was an old school of kabadayι.’

  ‘Sadly, dying out. But not quite yet. I’m one of the best, if I may be permitted to boast. A professional, in today’s parlance ...’

  Konstantin Efendi smiled derisively. ‘A professional?’

  Orhan sipped his drink. ‘I have come to offer my services.’

  Konstantin Efendi started laughing. ‘That’s very considerate ...’

  Orhan ignored the derision. ‘You have a classy establishment. You might need a strong arm ...’

  Konstantin Efendi pointed at his sons and nephews. ‘I have all the strong arms I need.’

  Orhan sipped his drink. ‘I’ve heard talk of Cossack gangs ...’

  Konstantin Efendi scoffed. ‘And you think you can deal with them? On your own?’

  Orhan put his glass down, then abruptly – without even getting up – struck the chair to his right with the side of his hand.

  The chair, made of wood, but sturdy, broke into pieces.

  Orhan smiled. ‘Yes.’

  A silence ensued.

  We were all stunned. Though our neighbourhood was not a particularly rough one, we had had our share of brawls, even witnessed the spillage of blood. But we had never seen such strength and authority, such a spontaneous and casual explosion of power.

  Orhan resumed drinking. ‘For your peace of mind – I’m cheap as kabadayι go. I don’t ask for wages. Nor a cut from the takings. Just my daily bread – melon, cheese, olives, a piece of fish or meat now and again. And raki. My portion is a bottle a day. I don’t need lodgings either. I’ll sleep in a corner. I got used to that in the army ...’

  Konstantin Efendi found his voice. ‘I don’t understand ...’

  ‘Money’s never interested me, Konstantin Efendi. I’m happy without it.’

  ‘But why – such a job?’

  ‘It’s my vocation. Where I come from, being kabadayι is considered an art. Like playing the kanun. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Here and there. And everywhere. Prison even.’

  ‘Prison?’

  Orhan smiled sadly. ‘Compulsory – in this country. Like primary school.’

  ‘What were you in for?’

  ‘Matter of honour. What else?’

  Another silence ensued. Serving a prison sentence, in Turkey, on a matter of honour – which invariably meant avenging insults, rapes and wrongs committed against family members – made a person special. He joined the elite – like poets, artists and leftists.

  Konstantin Efendi faced him solemnly. ‘If I refuse? Call the police?’

  Again, without any warning, Orhan struck at the chair to his left. That, too, smashed into pieces. ‘It’s your prerogative ...’

  Konstantin Efendi bellowed, ‘That’s two you’ve broken!’

  Orhan sipped his drink. ‘I’ll repair them. I’m good at that, too.’

  Konstantin Efendi looked at his wife, hoping she might have something to say.

  Orhan got up, fetched another glass, filled it with ice and raki, waited for the drink to turn cloudy and luminously white, then handed it to the old Romanian. ‘Here, some lion’s spunk! Let’s seal the deal.’ Suddenly abashed, he turned to Liliana. ‘Forgive me, Madamitza ... I meant angel’s milk ...’

  Liliana waved her hand flirtatiously. ‘I prefer lion’s spunk.’

  Orhan nodded courteously. ‘Spoken like a true lioness, Madamitza ... May Allah be praised for creating the likes of you ...’

  Noticing that Konstantin Efendi had been listening to the exchange with disapproval, Orhan winked at him.

  Even more confused, Konstantin Efendi winked back.

  Orhan turned to us. ‘Everybody – drink up! Only make sure you pay!’

  To give Konstantin Efendi his due, he not only refused payment for the drinks, but also closed the restaurant for lunch – a very lucrative time for business. When some of the neighbours, happily afloat on raki, teased him about his generosity and asked him why he had decided to pamper the stranger he, too, looked puzzled. One son, trying to answer for him, declared that he had a big heart – as everybody knew. Another argued that his father had admired Orhan’s audacity, a quality that he had been trying to inculcate, not very successfully, into the men in his family. A third son, much the wiliest, contended that his father must have engaged Orhan as a warden; talk of gangs – and not just Cossacks, but also Albanians and others – extorting money from businesses were not idle rumours; the protection racket was becoming a growing industry. Conceivably, the presence of a kabadayι might deter some of these gangs or, at least, in the event of an attack, give Konstantin Efendi enough time to alert the authorities.

  But only Ebony Nermin appeared to have fathomed the real reason. ‘Because the Efendi likes him. That’s why he’s hired him.’

  Big Liliana, perplexed as ever – though not as furious as she had been when her husband had closed the restaurant for lunch – turned to her as to an oracle. ‘But he’s only just met him!’

  Ebony Nermin nodded ingenuously. ‘So have I! And I adore him!’

  No one dared challenge that. Ebony Nermin might be slow in thought but, like the tortoise who raced the hare, she always got to the finishing line first. According to her only relative – an old aunt who had recently died – this was a gift she had inherited from her Nubian great-grandmother, who had been a famous oracle in her time and had saved the lives of at least three sultans from Seraglio intrigues. (As it happened, Mahmut the Simurg, the storyteller, had based one of his prophetesses on this great-grandmother.)

  ‘I will be his wife,’ concluded Ebony Nermin.

  I, Attila, heard her and felt very jealous. Like every lad in the neighbourhood, I loved Ebony Nermin, even though, at almost nineteen, she was a few years older than I was. I
loved her not because she was beautiful – there were other beautiful girls around. Nor because she had contours like Ava Gardner – though that delighted me, too. But because she was good through and through. A child spirit, as it is said. The only person who believed everything she was told and trusted everybody who crossed her path. She always smiled, always had something nice to say to everybody, always touched your hand gently when she greeted you, always showed her private parts on request (and never asked for money like some of the other girls). And she never ever snitched on you.

  So, forlorn, I hung around Orhan. I had intended to be rude to him – maybe even glare at him and warn him that, in a few years, I would be his adversary.

  To my surprise, soon after he settled in, he regaled people by reciting poetry to them. And he recited well – even shed tears now and again. He seemed to know every line written by Orhan Veli as well as many poems by Nâmιk Kemal, Fâzιl Hüsnü Dağlarca and lots of others. When people asked how he came to know these verses, he said he had learned them in the army, where the government had finally done its duty and taught him how to read and write. In fact, it was his love for Orhan Veli, he confessed, that had made him take the poet’s name as his own. This statement, contradicting his earlier contention that Orhan was the only name he had ever had, elicited a barrage of questions about his real identity.

  Which just made him laugh. ‘Orhan is what I answer to!’ he avowed repeatedly.

  That merely increased his mystery.

  And soon, inevitably, we boys, graciously gave up on Ebony Nermin. We saw, within days, that she truly adored Orhan. She would get up at the crack of dawn, wash quickly, run to the lokanta, find him wherever he had chosen to sleep – the yard in the summer, the kitchen in the winter – and gently wake him up. As he performed his ablutions, she would prepare his breakfast. He was a frugal eater – some bread, cheese, olives and onions. Then she would line up two glasses of raki – raki got a person going much better than coffee, he claimed – and three cigarettes which he smoked one after another to open up his chest. After that, he would move to his table which was at the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen, but with a clear view of the dining area, and set up his stall for the day. He would put a stool – he once explained that people got up faster from a stool than from a chair – at the head of the table, then place two chairs – chairs that he might have to smash up as a warning to disputants – on either side. Thereafter, he would line up two empty raki bottles on the table, each within easy reach of a hand. (He would keep the bottle he was drinking from underneath the table, in an ice bucket.) Finally, he would strap his stiletto on to his left calf – he was left-handed – then, almost ceremoniously, perch on the stool. Thereafter, he would shut his eyes and meditate, for a quarter of an hour or so, to attain the kabadayι spirit. Ebony Nermin would sit on the floor by his legs and spend the time until nine o’clock either staring at him in adoration or telling him things in her candid way that would make him smile with a tenderness I have never seen in another man.